Disclaimer: No, this is not mine. Sigh, did you honestly think that it would belong to me?
Bloody Robes
The blood on the front of his robes is red. He wasn't aware it would be, yet somehow it is so. All it takes is a single glance down to see that.
The blood on his robes is red; it is true blood, as true as his own.
He laughs at the irony of this, faintly aware that he is being stared at. The raven haired witch by his side casts him an approving glance, mistaking his laughter as sadistic pleasure at what he has done, but he does not notice her. His eyes are too focused on his own blood-spattered robes.
Because all he knows is that the blood that covers him from head to toe is red. As true as his own.
His laughter dies at the thought. A wave of nausea hits him, has it ever really been absent? His knees tremble dangerously and he rocks back and forth. The feeling leaves him and then returns with full force. He falls to the ground and is violently ill.
Blood on his robes and all over the place. Cold laughter sounding through the air, cutting through it like a knife. No one takes notice of him, he doesn't notice them either. All he notices, all he sees is red.
A short while later and a few Crucios, leaves him throbbing in pain amid new waves of nausea. But he hardly notices. He didn't fail his task, not really. He did kill at least one person. He knows this.He expects his punishment though, and he accepts it. He doesn't care if his Lord is angry at the moment. Right now all he cares about is getting home.
There is still blood on his robes and it is making him ill.
Discarding the robes doesn't make the sight go away. The image is burned horribly into his young mind. He dreams about the blood, it is still there when he wakes up, still all over him. There aren't enough showers in the world to rid him of it.
Blood on his robes. Blood everywhere.
Blood coughs from the elf's mouth as he recounts his tale. Blood as red as his own. He listens patiently, but says nothing. A plan has formed in his mind.
There is still blood everywhere in his eyes. Blood on his robes, blood on his hands. Blood that refuses to go away.
A heavy locket dangles in one hand but he hardly notices. He settles himself at his desk and begins to write.
To the Dark Lord,
His hearts beats furiously but he presses on. Because he knows that he can't wash away all his crimes, but he can justify them a bit. Or he will at least try.
Because he has blood on his hands that need to go.
"Kreacher!"
There is blood on his hands. Why isn't it staining the note?
"Yes, Master Regulus?"
"I need you to show me to the cave."
The elf looks horrified but is unable to refuse. He needs this; he needs to get rid of the blood...
His heart is beating furiously once more as he enters the cave. He is sure that he has never been more frightened then he is at that moment. But he will press on. This is something that he has to do.
Because the blood was still on his hands. Haunting him with its vibrant redness.
A note was tucked carefully into the locket. Its words were dripping with a vengeance that he had never known before.
There is blood on his robes.
This blood is for real. His nails dig furiously into the palms of his hands as he struggled to a sitting position. He fought back the urge to gag as he looked at his bloody hands.
"Kreacher," he rasped out.
Kreacher looked at him, terrified. "M-Master," the elf croaked out.
Without another word said, he pointed to the basin. Kreacher snatched up the real locket like he was told to and replaced it with a fake. He left just as the Inferi grabbed Regulus.
There was blood on his robes. Blood on his hands, his arms, his face...
They drag him under the water. He goes without a struggle, feeling relief course through his veins. The first relief he has felt since his first kill two years ago. The burning in his lungs is like euphoria to the young dark-haired wizard.
Because though there is blood still on his robes, it is for once his own.
It is not the blood he saw that day.
It is not the blood of the Muggles that he killed.
It is not the blood of the Order members that he helped track down and kill.
It is not the blood of Kreacher as he recounts his tale.
It is his own blood and it looks no different than the Muggle blood he first spilled two years ago.
He lets out a laugh as he plunges down further into the water, his throat aching and his lungs fit to burst. How ironic that to a young man who valued blood so highly, he would die with it covering him so thoroughly.
But it is his own blood, and that is why he laughs.
As everything begins to fade to black, he smiles feeling nothing but contentedness.
Because there is blood on his robes, blood on his hands and it is his own. It's vengeance against the Dark Lord, but it is also vengeance against himself.
There is blood on his robes, but for once he is glad.